


There Isn't a Sound

by Parche



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Angst, M/M, of the Suoh Mikoto flavour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 14:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6858121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parche/pseuds/Parche
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lying about napping all day really isn't good for your sleeping cycle, Suoh knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Isn't a Sound

Waking up to almost total darkness isn’t something that surprises Mikoto anymore. There was a time when it had been irritating, but now it’s just something that happens, just another night spent awake. The complete silence that surrounds him though, that is somewhat unusual.

Turning to his side on the bed he finds that it is only a little after one in the morning. That makes it even stranger. This should be about the prime time in the bar; late nights are where Izumo gets most of his business done, bar or HOMRA. There should be at least some noise, background music from downstairs if nothing else. But there isn’t. His window is closed so even any possible traffic noise is blocked out.

Running a hand through his hair, Mikoto gets up. This silence is heavy, weighs on him like his aura, and being alone like this, even though it would seem ideal, makes it feel as if all of his reasons for staying in control are out of grasp. When there is nothing around him, what is there to destroy if he lets loose? He grabs his jacket and is out of the door before he can continue that train of thought.

Out in the hallway, he thinks for a moment he sees Izumo’s shadow behind a door not quite closed, but doesn’t let it stop him. If there is one person who will have his back, even at his most stupid, it is Izumo. He is also the only one who probably doesn’t need Mikoto to explain in order to understand. They’ve known each other for far too long for such things to be necessary.

The night is cold and the bite of it makes his shoulders relax just slightly. There is even some light traffic, and the lingering fear in the back of his mind that he had woken up the only person in the city slowly disappears. Just another night, another night spent surrounded by city lights. The sight is disturbingly familiar.

Even before, he would have never called his habits healthy, much less reasonable, but sleeping had never been one of them. Well, depending on the point of view, that might actually be a lie. When he was younger, nights were spent awake by choice, and sleep caught whenever else was opportunate. But it was a choice, something he had conscious control of. Now it is just another chore, another thing he has no real control over. With all things that have changed with him becoming a King, he wonders sometimes if there anything of him even left. Maybe that is the price of power. It is so absolute it erases, burns down everything else, until it is the only thing left.

He doesn’t worry about himself. He knows he will burn out eventually, always did. But sometimes he wonders about the rest of HOMRA, about every stranger coming into a bar looking to take his burning hand. Still, he will never begrudge them their choices. He knows what it means to be seeking power. Their reasons are their own, as are their choices. That they respect his own would be the one thing he could ask for, but he won’t. Some things have more value when they remain unspoken.

And there are thing he wished he wasn’t selfish enough to withhold. Words, he knows, that he will always carry on his tongue. The same ones he will press down on with a cigarette and bury in smoke. He’s got nothing left to give but destruction. Or protection, as Tatara keeps insisting. Doesn’t matter what you call it; in the end he is always hurting someone.

(It is why fighting an equal feels so good. It is one instance where his feelings carry across where words can’t.)

Pushing open another bar’s door, he almost laughs. Of all nights Munakata has chosen this one to go out drinking. Exactly the one when Mikoto’s head won’t let their images fade. He should walk away. This is one person he’s hurt more than he can probably think. But he can’t. Because him walking away once is exactly what led to this, and it feels like he is doing it again every time their paths cross. (What idiot said doing something for the second time would make it easier?)

Munakata doesn’t look up until he puts out his cigarette in the ashtray in the center of his table. He looks way too tired to be out at this time, but Mikoto has no right to tell him to take care of himself, so he just steals his glass when Munakata reaches for it and downs it in two gulps.

A noise of protest escapes Munakata’s throat. In different circumstances, he would have smiled at the sound. Now, he just signals the bartender for two more glasses and grunts out an “I’ll pay for it.”

“Never took you for someone who had to pay for company,” but the tone is more resigned than biting. Mikoto cannot tell if it is a compliment, an insult or a self-deprecating comment, so he just studies the other King while he lights another cigarette.

Way too tired. Whatever that’s been plaguing him is making him way to tired. And Reisi has never been good at respecting his own limits. Everyone else’s, yes. All the rules, too. Himself, huh, that was expendable. He probably didn’t think of himself in those terms, but on some deeper level he didn’t see himself as a King. Just another piece of puzzle needed to complete the bigger picture, who by chance could direct the other pieces to their place.

Still, how fitting that on a night Mikoto can’t sleep, it is the one thing Munakata desperately needs.

“You could always walk away.”

Because while he is selfish enough to impose his own presence on him, Mikoto isn’t going to make him stay (no matter how badly he wants to). Munakata stares at him as their drinks are set on the table. There is a wry little smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“It would be a waste of perfectly fine liquor.”

In other words, he’s got until Munakata reaches the bottom of his glass. He leans back into the seat and runs a finger over the rim of his own glass.

It is hard to find something appropriate to say. Once, asking what was plaguing him would have been welcome; now they just hide behind fond insults that hide everything Mikoto wishes they still were. He can’t think of the last honest conversation they had. (He does remember Munakata trying, when they first met as Kings. He also remembers ruthlessly shutting that down.)

“You look like shit.”

Because he does, and that is as honest and unobtrusive as he can make his concern.

“Eloquent as ever.”

“If you wanted pretty words, you should’ve stayed at home with your poetry books.”

And that was probably too far. Munakata doesn’t answer, just picks up his glass and takes a sip. Like this is another one of his beloved games. Each time Mikoto fucks up, the level of liquid decreases, and with it the time he has left.

“Why are you here?” He’s not ready to give up yet.

Munakata produces a derisive sound that makes him grip his own glass tighter.

“For the same reason every other person comes to the bar. To drink.”

But Munakata drinks about as often as he smokes, that is to say, either when he is stressed or the company requires it.

“And the papers are a side snack?”

Because there are papers on his side of the table. Probably work, Mikoto hasn’t bothered to try and read; prying has never been his thing. Even though he is feeling enough out of himself tonight that doing something stupider than usual isn’t out of the question.

Munakata takes another sip. Mikoto sighs.

“Go home Munakata.”

There is some emotion in those eyes as Munakata’s lips straighten in a taut line.

“I do not think you are in position to be giving me orders.”

“S’not an order,” as if he’s ever given one out (other than for things to _burn_ ), “just advice.”

Munakata snorts. It really is an unattractive sound, but Mikoto has missed it.

When Munakata lowers the glass back on the table, Mikoto takes it and his hand into his own. Munakata’s head jerks towards his, reprimand at the top of his tongue, and meets Mikoto’s mouth instead.

The hand around the glass tries to jerk away from his, but Mikoto just holds onto it tighter and kisses him harder. It takes about two more kisses before Munakata gives up and gives in. Mikoto feels the tension leave the hand he is gripping, so he lets go too, and moves it to Munakata’s face instead. He wishes he could take off his glasses without them separating because the way his nose keeps bumping into the frames is really irritating. Instead he gently nudges his face into a better angle and allows himself to kiss him with something that is more than motion, softer than passion, and far more honest. His fingers ghost over his cheek, and Munakata catches them in a grip that just might break them.

They separate for a breath before Munakata is kissing him, working to bruise his lips – working to make him _hurt_. Mikoto just pulls him closer, and Munakata uses the movement to forcefully part his lips and push his tongue inside.  Responding in kind is instinct, even if it isn’t what he was aiming for. He only wanted to warm Munakata a little, offer some comfort, but if he is going to get burned instead, he won’t protest. As long as Munakata responds, he will take everything he gets, searing and bruising kisses included.

He tries to move to adjust their position again because the one Munakata has forced them into is hell for his neck, but Munakata just grabs him by the hair and manhandles him to get more leverage. It throws his balance a little so he means to grab onto Munakata to steady himself and ends up slamming his elbow into the table and pulling away with a curse.

The glasses on the table rattle, but he is more preoccupied watching as Munakata’s eyes regain their focus. So up close, there is nothing else to look at. He is distantly aware of the hand not in his hair having an iron grip on his shirt.

With an exhale and as much of a smile as he allows himself, he takes Munakata’s glasses off his face. He presses a kiss into that frown, but pulls away before it can evolve into something else.

“Let me take you home, yeah?”

Munakata looks like he doesn’t want to, but ends up putting the papers in the bag anyway. They don’t speak, but Mikoto takes his hand prisoner in his own and doesn’t let go until Munakata has to unlock the door.

Neither of them bothers with the light switch, and once Munakata has put his bag down, Mikoto’s lips are back on his skin. He tries to turn, to kiss him again, but Mikoto stops the movement of his body, only leaning over his shoulder for the kiss to connect. It is a mess of want and slower motions that neither of them is really used to, but there are fingers slowly peeling off his clothes, so he lets Suoh control the pace for now.

Once his shirt is open, Munakata forces Mikoto’s hands away for long enough to face him, and kisses him with enough force that they start heading towards the bedroom. Mikoto lets him lead, busy with pushing his unbuttoned shirt off his shoulders, and only makes a mild noise of surprise when he finds himself pushed on the bed. Munakata looms over him, and this time he takes care to remove his glasses before they meet in another hot press of lips. It is almost a revelation, sharing this many kisses. It is something that they don’t put much time into usually, but tonight when Munakata’s defenses are lower than usual, and Mikoto’s mind is lost in nostalgia, he finds himself wanting to do nothing but kiss him the whole night.

The hands tugging at his shirt betray other intensions, and he lets it happen. Because he is selfish and wants every touch, every kiss that Munakata will give, even those that hurt. Because they are Munakata’s, and therefore worth ten of any kisses he manages to steal.

In another reality maybe they spend the whole night doing nothing but kissing, with Mikoto whispering love and comfort into his skin. In this one, there are only burning touches and breathed gasps, and Mikoto wishes it was enough. (Is afraid that for Munakata maybe it is.)

In the aftermath of it, he finds himself surrounded by silence again. But it is an easier weight to bear this time, even if sleep keeps eluding him still. It helps, being able to hear Munakata’s breathing if he focuses enough, knowing that whenever he opens his eyes he will find his face on the pillow next to his own. With him there, for at least a little while, being awake doesn’t seem like a chore.

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully this has exorcised all the MikoRei angst from my soul and I will only write happy stuff from now on.


End file.
